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Monday, 20 March 2017

Tribute to my brother

My brother Paul died
suddenly last September.

His death completely silenced me on social
media. I wanted my next public words to be a tribute to him and, because it's me, they
had to be perfect. Sadly no words are perfect on the first try and so I was
silent. I knew in my heart my brother wouldn't mind whether my words were perfect
or not, he would just like to be remembered, in whatever way I chose. But I couldn't do it.
Writing about his death makes it real, and despite all the very real
things I had to do during that time, I don't want it to be real or to
think it has really happened as it's too painful. It still is too painful as I miss him so much. But I think I will never find those perfect words, as in a perfect world he would still be here, so instead here is my eulogy. And to all those
people who stand up to speak about their loved ones at such a sad
time, my heart goes out to you. x

Eulogy speech

Most of you will know
that I am Paul’s sister. ‘His lovely sister’ he called me on
occasion, usually in a birthday card that arrived a month later than
my birthday. He liked to give me various humorous nicknames when we
were growing up, mainly in retribution for stepping on and breaking
his drum when I was a toddler, something I was never allowed to
forget. Aged five, I went to my next-door neighbour to ask her what
nickname I could call my fourteen-year old brother that would bring
him to his knees. She thought about it and told me to tell him he was
a ‘funny boy’. So I did, and I did bring him to his knees, but in
laughter.

I’d like to think
that Paul delighted in having a younger sister, mainly because my
role was quickly established early on as ‘audience’. I was his
willing page-turner when he played guitar, his foil and accomplice in
all our games, and, despite our age difference, we were best friends.
Although that’s not to say that my brother wasn’t above being
sneaky or clever with his little sister.

I’ll share with you
two favourite memories that illustrate Paul’s sneaky cleverness.

We used to share an
advent calendar and would race each-other down the stairs on December
mornings to be first to open the door and see what picture was
revealed. As Christmas got closer, I found it harder and harder to
reach the calendar, because unbeknownst to me each day Paul was
sticking it higher and higher up the wall. It was only when I was
starting to jump to reach it that I realised something was amiss.

The other memory is of
playing football in the garden. The goal I would be given to aim for
was the narrow shed door. The goal I was given to defend was the
entire width of the patio. Needless to say, and of course on pure
skill, Paul always won.

But it is hard to limit
fond memories to just two. I have a wealth of remembrances that will
equally make me groan, cry, laugh, or shake my head. Paul was always
a delight to be around, he was a kind-hearted, soft-centred soul who
only wanted to repeat Michael McIntyre jokes and make people laugh.
He had a wealth of knowledge about sport, music, comedy and film,
spoke fluent Italian, was an accomplished musician, and had a range
of talent and skill that he modestly under-played, apart from when
playing Trivial Pursuits.

As well as games, Paul
loved music. We started a tradition of going to gigs and shows
together some years ago – a full day out where we’d explore
London, and then head to the venue. These days shine so brightly for
me. On one occasion we went to see The Beach Boys, and everyone in
our section was seated. One song came on and me and Paul looked at
each-other and without any words we both knew we wanted to dance, so
up we got, and the entire section followed us. I like to think the
standing ovation at the Royal Albert Hall was actually because of us.

But that's what
brothers and sisters are to each-other, people who love and know
each-other so well that there is no need for words. And so I can
always hear his voice and know what he'd be saying. Right now he'd be
saying that I'm being soppy but he'd be very chuffed with me all the
same.

And so on his behalf
and mine, I'd like to say a few words for my mother. She and Paul
would spend every Sunday together and I know how much my brother
worshipped and adored his mum. Thank you all for supporting her
during this time and beyond.

I'd also like to say
thank you to his colleagues from his company. He really enjoyed his
time with you and I know he was a valued member of your team.

There are so many ways
in which everyone, and I, will miss Paul, but his legend lives on our
collective memories, and most especially in his son, his daughter,
and his little grand-daughter.

So although my brother
was a funny boy, he was also always my lovely brother. And for that,
Paul, I want gig tickets to see The Beatles one day. I'll leave it
for you to arrange.

You went too soon, brother of mine, but I know they
were all probably waiting for you to arrive to get the party started.
Without you they wouldn't have a fab DJ for a start. x

Addendum: Please look after my lovely naughty tortie cat, Abigail,
who was 18 years old when she decided it was time to join you. Paul, please do not try to give her an entire tin of Whiskas. She will only give you a
look (you know the look I mean) and explain she only eats
tuna. Humour her for me, my darlings! x

3 comments:

Beautifully put, moving, yet with hope germinating. It did occur that you and the Naughty Tortie hadn't been around, but thought you probably just didn't want Twitter any more. Now that you've spoken, many warm feelings will float in your direction. So sorry for your loss of 1 + 1.

Jayne Ferst

In the 1970s a girl was born and sent to school for a crime she didn't commit. That girl finally escaped from a dull comprehensive into the lost artistic underground. Today, still wanted by her job, she survives as a writer of fortune. If you need a story, if no one else can help, and if you remember the A Team theme tune, maybe you can sing it with me.